


Waves

by cherrycocaine95



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Implied Smut, Love, Non-canon character - Freeform, OC, One Shot, Original Character - Freeform, Romance, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrycocaine95/pseuds/cherrycocaine95
Summary: The morning after yet another night together, Lydia ponders the true nature of her relationship with Sam Winchester.(Written in 2014.)
Relationships: Sam Winchester/OC, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character
Kudos: 2





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

> This was an exercise I wrote for fun back in 2014. I never continued it, nor did I ever intend to, not my best work, but wanted to post SOMETHING to get my account started, lmao, so here you go.

The morning was still dark, not because the dawn had not come, but because it was so terribly overcast. The weatherman had said there would be thunderstorms off and on all day. Or maybe he had said in the evening and throughout the night. It made no difference to me—stormy weather was the best kind of weather, day or night.

I sighed softly, rolling onto my side and propping myself up on one elbow to look at the man lying beside me. I smiled as I admired his sleeping figure, his toned, firm torso, his relaxed, rested face, his light brown hair slightly mussed, falling gently over his forehead. His hair was long, but neat, and just reaching the bottom of his neck. It sometimes reminded me of the style and length Carlo Imperato wore in the earlier seasons of the 1980s television series Fame. I giggled at the comparison, and my companion opened one sea-green eye, smirking.

“What?” he asked, chuckling softly.

“I knew you weren’t really asleep,” I teased, settling into his arms. “Sleep well? You should have.” I giggled again, and he smiled. I could have sworn he was blushing.

“Yeah,” he said, pressing his lips against my temple. I closed my eyes blissfully against their touch. I slid my hand over the firm muscles of his chest and turned to lean over him. I slid my hand into his hair and kissed his sweet, soft mouth. I felt his chin nudging upward gently as he kissed me back, his hands sliding around my waist. I moaned softly in my throat and began to let my kisses travel down his chin and neck. He held me as my lips worked around his clavicle, but I could feel him tensing beneath me. I stopped kissing him and drew away, looking at him.

“What is it?” I asked, sitting up and running a hand through my red-brown hair. My mother was blonde and my father had black hair, but my great-times-countless grandmother, who I was named for, owned a saloon and fell in love with a Cherokee customer, who she eventually married. I’ve seen photographs of her toward the end of her life, and her beauty remained even in old age. My mother says I got my wavy red-sometimes-brown-sometimes hair from her. She says my dark eyes and prominent cheekbones came from the old Lydia’s Cherokee lover. I looked at my own lover with these eyes now. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing, Lydia. Really, it’s just…Dean, he’s probably wondering where I am by now.” He sounded distracted. “I think maybe I should go.” He sat up and started to reach for his shirt, which was on the floor a few feet from the bed, but I stopped him.

“Hey,” I said gently, grabbing his wrists. My hands looked terribly small against them. “Where’s the fire? Your brother can wait.” He relaxed a bit as I slid behind him, wrapping my arms and legs around him. He reached a hand up to grasp mine, which rested against his chest, and I gently kissed the side of his neck. “Why don’t you just stay a while?” I purred in his ear. “Wouldn’t you like to stay? Just this once?” He sighed and started to lean back, so I leaned against the pillows, allowing him to rest against my bosom. I kissed his head and began to stroke his hair. It still felt damp. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against his.

“I can’t,” he sighed again. “I really want to stay, Lydia, but I can’t stay forever.” He turned his head and glanced up at me.

“Why not?” I asked, and my question was genuine.

“I have to be moving on again soon,” he said to his lap. “Things to do.”

“Can’t they wait?” I asked, squeezing him tight, still stroking his damp hair.

“Maybe,” he sighed. “Probably not.”

“I don’t understand you, Sam Winchester,” I murmured.

“Join the club,” he said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “They have support group meetings every Thursday.”

Making love with Sam Winchester was always the easy part.

It always felt like the tide rolling in, our waves rising and falling softly against one another, holding onto rocks, shells, and discarded glass upon the sand for fear of drowning. In the end, the waves remember their identity and that they needn't be afraid to drown. The waves surrender to the ocean, leaving the rocks and shells washed clean upon the shore. Making love with him was like that, natural, practically effortless. I understood making love with him, the natural rhythm and harmony our bodies shared. I understood the way his lips danced against my skin, kisses which slowly transformed into delicate love nips against my neck which sent hoards of butterflies throughout all of me, gathering at my toes and fingertips, trying to fly away with me. Our bodies understood each other—that much was clear. But it was always this way. It was never until afterward, lying in one another’s arms, our bodies flushed and throbbing, that it would come to me yet again that I didn’t know Sam Winchester, not really, and that there were so many things I did not understand.

I didn’t understand his secrecy, his excuses, the scars which increased in number, how he almost never stayed long enough for me to make him breakfast. Sometimes I woke and he was already gone, leaving me with only his faint scent on my sheets and pillows. I didn’t think I was his occasional booty call—I cared too deeply about him to consider that possibility, although anyone with a lick of sense would have jumped to such a conclusion right away. We had met about a year ago, in Indiana, when he was working “a job” with his older brother. I knew his line of work, at least somewhat, because he had helped solve the cause of death of a dear friend of mine. He had questioned me about her. That was how we met, and I fell hard and fast, for his gentle way of speaking, his sympathetic gaze, and the way he always looked me in the eyes. We went out a few times before he left, and whenever he and his brother were in the area, we saw each other, but more often than not, he would leave, and I would not see him again for a long time. Knowing what I did about his work, I worried about him, and I didn’t understand why he didn’t contact me as I wished he would, just so I would know if he was alive or dead. I didn’t understand what he was thinking and I didn’t know if he actually cared about me.

I desperately wanted to.

Sam’s cell phone started to ring and I saw him reach for it. He looked at it hesitantly, and then looked at me. He looked back at his cell phone and switched it off, setting it on my bedside table. He turned around to face me, resting a hand on my hip as he gave me a slow, deep kiss.

“Mmm,” I murmured against his lips. “What’s this?”

“I want to stay,” he whispered. “And just this once, I’m going to stay…because I want to…just this once…”

“Sammy…” I ran my hands down his muscular back as we kissed, and his tongue felt frantic against mine. I moaned softly against his mouth, sliding my legs up beside his hips. As we made love again, I held onto him with all of my might, breathing in his scent and memorizing his features, for a sense of melancholy within me knew that soon, the waves would retreat to the ocean and he would leave me once more. Was this why I slept with him, I wondered? Was it my way of guaranteeing more time with him, guaranteeing that he might at least stay with me overnight, that I could fall asleep in his arms and make believe that he was mine forever?

I was ridiculous to have such fantasies. I didn’t know what I was to Sam Winchester, and not bold enough to ask, although I owed myself the answer. After I met Sam, I considered myself off-limits. I hardly even looked at other guys, so I definitely didn’t go out with them, although I’d bet anything that Sam still allowed himself the pleasure of other women. I’m not saying he’s a womanizer—Sam Winchester was far from being a womanizer. That was his brother’s job. I’m saying that Sam Winchester moved around a lot; it was unlikely that he allowed himself the vulnerability of devoting himself to one woman.

Sam grunted softly and fell against my chest, sighing gently. I held him as he was catching his breath, threading my fingers delicately into his hair and kissing his head. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but, terrified of his reaction to these words, I forbade them to leave my mouth, instead playing the words over and over in my head. I love you, Sam…I love you, Sam…I love you, Sam…


End file.
